How oft when thou, my music, music playst,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayst
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the woods boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
Oer whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blessd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
The Sonnets CXXVIII - How oft when thou, my music, music playst
William Shakespeare
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